


But I kept running for a soft place to fall

by softlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, John is a Mess, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Post-Season/Series 04, Scars, Sherlock is a Mess, Slow Burn, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, rosie exists but is taken care of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:28:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24740803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlock/pseuds/softlock
Summary: "The guilt was eating up at his insides like he was a particularly gruesome corpse.But John knew he was all both Sherlock and Rosie had. And all he had was them. It was them against the rest of the world. How ironic."Set after the Culverton case, nothing is well, John and Sherlock are a mess. They slowly pick up the shambles and start anew.
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	1. Where we left off

Sherlock despised being monitored like a child due to his “drug habit” as Mycroft called it. Everyone he trusted (which wasn’t many people) were taking turns keeping him company and watching him while he sobered up. 

The Culverton case had really taken its toll on Sherlock. But it had also taken its toll on John. John had come and cried and there had been the Hug with a capital H. They never did these things. It was odd, to say the least. But John did not mention it being Not Good, so Sherlock guessed he must have appreciated the emotional release on some level. 

But Sherlock knew the release wasn’t nearly enough. Talking about feelings was never their strong point. John had so much more hidden. The man was always hidden behind layers. Maybe the Hug was just one of those things that they would pretend never happened. 

Sometimes Sherlock wished John could have hit just a little harder, if it meant John felt good enough to reveal some more. It was a frightening thought. But it was a thought worth considering when there was so much dullness and boredom. He could do with a smoke. Just to take off the edge. Just one…

Unfortunately, Lestrade was around today. The strictest of his minders. John was strict with the drugs, but he had a soft spot for Sherlock’s antics, and was also ashamed of his behavior in the morgue. Mycroft might be strict with Sherlock, but he did not have the time to hang around babysitting and at least wasn’t dull. Mrs. Hudson sneaked herbal soothers in herself. Molly? Let me laugh. 

But Lestrade? Lestrade knew of his past as an addict and had gotten him out of the gutter on more than one occasion. Lestrade was not impressed by Sherlock’s genius. He appreciated Sherlock’s help at cases and had grown close to Sherlock, but knew his duty. And he knew his duty now was to help Sherlock stay away from drugs. 

“Gavin, just let me go relieve my bladder without watching me like an animal at the zoo!” Sherlock exclaimed while squirming on the sofa.

Gavin crossed his arms and replied:

“I was just asking you to leave the door open. Now go piss!”

Sherlock huffed, but saw no way out. He really had to go piss.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

On day 17 after the Culverton case (sober, unless you count the secret cigarettes and nicotine patches), John had decided the restrictions placed on Sherlock would be lightened. He could now leave the house unsupervised, but had to be back home by nighttime unless John was with him on a case. He could also do what he wanted around the house and start using chemicals in his experiments. However, John would still supervise. 

Sherlock found this new routine not much different to how his life was with John before the incident…Or rather before Everything. Before Culverton, before the Tarmac, before Mary’s death, before the Wedding…Before the Fall. The routine (black, two sugars) was the same, but that easy camaraderie was gone, lost. Not much had changed, yet everything had. 

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

John had come back to Baker Street with Rosie. It was ridiculous that he trusted Sherlock enough to let his own child with a drug addict, particularly one who had last shot up 18 days ago. 

Because yes, John had been counting. He knew Sherlock had been too. Of course, he had. Trust Sherlock to treat killing himself as some kind of experiment. 

John did not know what to do with himself. He had talked through it all with Ella, but of course that did him no good. It had been terrifying what Sherlock had done to himself, but also terrifying that John was capable of hurting Sherlock on top of it all. Enough to get Sherlock all bloody in hospital and at the mercy of one of the most dangerous men alive. 

All that rage inside! It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t sane. He didn’t know who was worse, John or Culverton. And he was a father! Rosie deserved more than this. Sherlock deserved more than this. He was letting everybody down. 

The guilt was eating up at his insides like he was a particularly gruesome corpse.

But John knew he was all both Sherlock and Rosie had. And all he had was them. It was them against the rest of the world. How ironic.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Mycroft had received a visit by Dr Watson in his office. 

This was surprising, not because of the doctor’s request (predictable as always), but because nobody was allowed in his office without invitation. Most meetings occurred in the lounge or tea room. The former captain had retained his courage, but must have lost his recognition of hierarchy somewhere along the line.

John Watson wanted to be free of the custody of his child, Rosamund Mary Watson. He was willing to put her up for adoption. However, he was not willing to give her to a relative of his or Mary’s, and much less to a stranger. A position he had been assuredly clear about. 

“I can’t bear to have her get hurt, Mycroft. I would never forgive myself. And my relatives are no better.” John said, shaking his head.

“Of course, Doctor Watson. I have seen what damage you are capable of.” Mycroft declared.

John bristled.  
“If you’re talking about what happened to Sherlock, I…”

“Hurt him. Yes.” Mycroft said scathingly.

“I know. Look I—I’m sorry. Don’t you see? I can’t take care of her. Rosie. She—she deserves better. Parents who will bloody care for her. Who will—will love her. Not—not abuse her or neglect her or anything else.”

John sat himself down in one of the armchairs, bowed his head. Took a deep breath. No doubt had he been to his therapist Ella Thomson this week and learnt some coping techniques.

“Abuse runs in certain families as genius does in others.”

“Is that supposed to be helpful? Or just another chance to inflate your own ego?”

Mycroft left the question without an answer. Mycroft knew that underneath the rage, John Watson had a sound mind and good heart. Comparisons to an alcoholic abusive father were not only far from the truth, they were also unhelpful in this situation.

“If I help you with this, you must promise to apologize to my brother. He has not heard an apology from you for nearly beating him to death and is rightfully upset at that,” Mycroft’s said with a frown and tight lips, “Now who will be the lucky parents?” 

“Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade. They have already agreed. And yes, I will apologize to him.” 

“John Watson, I cannot stress this enough. You may be able to get yourself out of caring for one child, but not for the other. The other being my brother Sherlock Holmes. He is a child in many ways to my dismay. He may not require a legal guardian, but he is in need of you as a partner. I will grant you your request, but you must promise to be gentle with him and be there for him.”

John looked at Mycroft in the eye and nodded, determined to make things right.

“Anthea will fix the paperwork; Rosie should be with her new parents by the end of the week.”

John let out a relieved sigh.

“Good day Doctor Watson. And do send my regards to my brother.”


	2. Boiling anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets angry. He hits a wall.

Sherlock was in a strop. His moodiness could always get to such heights that he would shoot the walls, wouldn't eat or sleep. He had also smoked a cigarette out of his bedroom window and reeked of smoke. John couldn't figure it out. He thought Sherlock would be happy to have that attention to himself, but Sherlock did not seem satisfied.

“How could you lower yourself to speak to my pompous excuse of a brother?” fumed Sherlock.

“I thought you’d be happy to not have my daughter barging into your experiments!” John exclaimed, running a hand though his hair. Really, he had gone through this decision with everyone including his sister, debated with himself for the past 4 weeks, explored every scenario…and Sherlock was the one to complain?

“Yes, well now with her gone and out of the way, we can focus on more important matters! We can go on cases again! Chase some criminals! Where is my blogger when I need him? I know you still have the Sig in your bedside drawer. Not very wise of you, considering a child was sleeping there mere days ago, but it just goes to show you like danger and need some excitement!”

John was extremely irritated. And one of the reasons why he was irritated, irritated him even more, if that was possible. 

He had abandoned his child for Sherlock. 

He had done this for Rosie, sure. But he had also done it for Sherlock.

That was extremely fucked up. It was…a difficult decision to say the least. Excruciating. But he had to find a way to escape the hell he was living in for the past 3-4 years. It was difficult for him – former war hero and surgeon – to neglect his duties. Avoiding responsibility did not come naturally to him. He had always worked hard to live up to the expectations placed on him, Harry used to call him names for that. He had not been called “Daddy’s boot and arse-licker” for nothing. 

What for some might seem like avoiding his responsibilities was actually the best and more responsible thing he could do in his situation. He had agreed with Ella to take a break from casework, try to return to a semblance of normality in order to work on his long list of issues. And he had to remind himself to be proud of his decision. 

He suddenly felt a wave of anger towards Sherlock for…for corrupting him like this. For thwarting his resolve to be a good respectable man. The posh junkie would be the death of him someday. It was shameful, the thoughts that came to mind when he thought of Sherlock. 

The fantasies had started as fond smiles, maybe holding Sherlock’s hand…which was already pretty damning. But the fantasies had lately gotten more and more violent to the point of becoming nightmares. Violent beatings, hitting him right on his sinful mouth, twisting his arm back like a criminal, raw brutal in no way consensual sex… He was a terrible man. He was definitely going to hell for this. He hated himself for it. 

At the same time, Sherlock was not blameless. He’d made himself be dead for two years, probably laughing in John’s face. Laughing at how pathetic John was for being dull and ordinary. For grieving him like an actual human being.

He felt his jaw tighten.

Sherlock was speaking to him over the haze.  
“John? John! John Look at me! Calm down, I did not mean any harm, I take it back if you want. You are right, I have no right to impose. I have made you some tea, sit down. Please?” He looked nervous, fiddling with his cuffs.

Sherlock was right: it was not his place to contradict him about his bloody life. Sherlock was however wrong: treating John like he was made of glass (as if he hadn’t been to Afghanistan!) was frankly insulting.

John felt his hands close to fists; his vision turning blurry at the edges; his pulse thudding behind his eardrums… No! John! Control yourself! What did Ella tell him last time? 

_Remove yourself from the situation John, and come back when you’re ready._

Christ he was never going to be ready. But he had to leave. Now.

John turned and walked blindly towards the hallway, slipped on his shoes, ran swiftly down the stairs, scrambled through the coats on the hooks…and threw his closed fist at the wall.

He punched the wall again. It felt good. Liberating. 

He looked at his bloodied hand as if in slow motion. He was panting, watching the small dent he made in the wallpaper ridges. Good thing old buildings had strong walls.

Then he felt the pain shoot up his hand up towards his bad shoulder. It was like reaching the surface after plunging in icy cold water. Everything gradually sped up. 

Sherlock appeared at the corner of his visual field. When John looked up the stairwell, Sherlock flinched. 

He had flinched, even at that distance from John. Even though he was in no immediate danger. Even a month after the morgue.

Oh god, what had he done?

…………………………………………………………………………………..

Sherlock was making scrambled eggs for John. He wanted to surprise John this morning, after yesterday’s mistake. John had been through so much pain and Sherlock hoped to cheer him up. It was a stupid, idiotic thought, but he was desperate. John was right to be angry, he too was going insane at the way things were. The only difference is that John was angry at him, and Sherlock could never be angry at John. He knew he had let John down, but he was working hard to make up for it. Yesterday had been a massive slip-up, he should not have questioned John’s decisions he made together with his therapist. He just wished John had not inadvertently hurt himself by punching that wall. 

That wall had seen a lot of beautiful times between them. Sherlock liked reminiscing about when he and John laughed after the cabbie case and joked about invading Afghanistan. That had been their first case together. John had forsaken his cane and killed a man for him that night. He was so radiant when he laughed. Sherlock wondered what went wrong along the way.

 _You. You’re what went wrong._ The voice in his head thundered. John was a much happier person before Everything. And Everything bad had happened because of Sherlock. He did not know how to fix this. John had not forgiven him. Maybe Sherlock was beyond forgiveness. 

Even if Sherlock would not be forgiven, he could try to make John happy. John’s happiness sometimes (more rarely these days) elicited a smile, which would warm the emptiness inside Sherlock for a second. Sherlock would then store that smile into his mind palace to review at leisure and glean out as much pleasure as he could out of it. 

He knew of several things that made John happy or at least content. He vowed to contribute to John’s wellbeing. He now did the groceries for example. He was not always very skilled in his new pursuits ( _You bought ten kilos of broccoli and no milk, Sherlock!_ ) but he was willing to work hard to do better.

So this is how he came to decide to make breakfast in bed. He hoped John would enjoy it, even though breakfast was a rather pedestrian routine.


	3. Scrambled eggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes some progress!

John’s alarm clock went off at 8:30, as it did every Saturday. He allowed himself that extra hour on weekends; no more, no less. He made his bed with his usual hospital corners. He then dressed, clambered down the stairs and went to the loo. 

As he was shaving, he realized two things that irked him. One: Sherlock was always dressed nowadays and did not strut around in a sheet like he used to. He had become very modest since he came back. Two: the flat smelled of scrambled eggs and pancakes, which meant Sherlock was going to put up that overly polite and courteous act that was so unnerving.

John did not know what to make of this strange behavior from Sherlock since the case he had privately called The Lying Detective, or rather since he had come back from the dead. He wished he could deduce Sherlock the way Sherlock did. Apprehensive, he took in a breath and entered the living room.

Sherlock was stacking up pancakes onto a plate. He nodded at John and said: “Good morning John! Breakfast is ready, strawberry jam is on the table.” 

He placed a square of butter on the stack, just like John liked it. He opened and closed different shelves and drawers here and there, looking for cutlery, honey and tea bags. Sherlock looked manic, like he was overly excited about a new experiment.

“Erm—hello?” John replied, overwhelmed. Sherlock was still flitting and twirling in the kitchen making tea, as if performing some intricate dance where only he could hear the music. 

“Okay Sherlock, very impressive. May I ask why you are doing this? I did not even know you could boil an egg,” John pointed out.

“I did not boil an egg, I scrambled it John. You have a preference for scrambled eggs, don’t you? Did I get it wrong?” Sherlock frowned as he placed his plate on the table.

“No—no you did not get it wrong, your deduction is absolutely correct,” John half-sighed half-laughed, “But why are you making me breakfast? It is not my birthday last I checked. Do we have a case?”

Sherlock sat down at the table facing John and poured a bit of honey on a pancake. He looked down at his plate, squirmed a bit. They sat in silence for a while.   
Then Sherlock seemed to nod to himself, looking up at John with intense, albeit sad eyes.

“No, John. This is an apology for yesterday. I hope you can forgive me for making you angry. Besides John you know I don’t eat on cases,” Sherlock took a big bite of pancakes to prove his point.

John was feeling the flames of his ever-present anger start licking the insides of his chest. Sherlock should not be feeling guilty about this. He had apologized more than enough for the Fall. He should be blaming John for ruining everything. Why couldn’t Sherlock act like a normal human being? John should be the one apologizing, yet the words were lodged in his throat. 

“My anger issues are not your concern Sherlock.”

“They are, John.”

Sherlock had stood up, with his hands clasped in front of him. He looked very young, and very out of place. His eyes looked unsure and he was biting his bottom lip.  
John was pained that he was the reason Sherlock looked like this. Sherlock must be trying so hard. He was strangely reminded of his vow to Mary. The problems of her future were his privilege. Sherlock had made a similar vow to Mary, but also to John. He knew he wanted to blame Sherlock for the Fall, for deliberately putting himself in danger with drugs or at the hands of villains. 

Sherlock was never a monster. He wanted to fix this, he wanted to be good to Sherlock. He did not want to see Sherlock flinch at him again.

But he was the monster. Being a good man rather than a monster took a lot of energy and he did not have much to spare. He did not feel ready to apologize today. He would try to make Sherlock feel at bit more at ease and try again tomorrow.

“Sherlock – you know this is hard for me. This kind of stuff. It’s – it’s fucked up. It’s all a mess. I’m seeing Ella for it and I swear I’m trying. Just – please don’t blame yourself.”

Sherlock seemed to feel a need to interject: “I’m sorry for being unreasonable. I was disrespectful. I know giving Rosie up must have been hard for you, on top of everything—”

“--Yeah. Yeah I know, okay? Just give me some time.” John was suddenly exhausted by the conversation. He added: “And please don’t feel the need to make me breakfast. Even if I do like scrambled eggs.”

Sherlock looked highly affronted at that, but there was a slight glimmer in his eye that showed he understood and appreciated the distraction. 

“Did you not like my scrambled eggs?” Sherlock asked with a smirk.

John was starving for their usual banter, so he replied “I saw you using the same spatula and pan to fry some human fingers yesterday, your hygiene protocol is atrocious.”

“Says the man who licked his fingers from strawberry jam.” 

Sherlock sent a crooked smile John’s way and the pair dissolved in a fit of giggles.   
John savored the moment. Things were far from okay, but his friendship with Sherlock felt less like something irretrievable and more of something to strive for.


	4. Shards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We dive into Sherlock's mind...warning for mentions of violence

After that breakfast and John’s stilted comments about his repressed emotions, things had gone back to the hateful distance and awkwardness between them. John was still going to regular therapy and coming back grumpy every time. John was going to the gym a lot, presumably using the punching bag and pretending it was Sherlock. John had also been to Lestrade and Molly’s and presumably made a lot of tedious small talk to convey how grateful he was for them and their taking care of baby Watson. Rosie. He could not call her Watson anymore, Sherlock reminded himself.

So John was back from his social interaction of the day and had not spoken to Sherlock other than give a hi, preparing tea and drinking it in silence from his chair. Sherlock observed him in equal silence.

John had always been impossibly difficult to deduce, which was what made him interesting. However today it was more frustrating than intriguing.  
John had been letting some of his own frustrations go with Ella, but Sherlock could not bring himself to go to therapy. He hated being analyzed. He knew John hated it too and admired the soldier’s bravery for exposing himself to scrutiny. Even Sherlock’s often intense scrutiny. John had always been the strongest of them. 

Sherlock had initially gone to therapy to help John. Ella had told him that was not what therapy for him would entail, and his goals should not revolve around helping John, rather helping himself. 

Sherlock had dismissed her as preposterous, dim-witted like the rest of them. She did not even have the added excitement of being a criminal like John’s other therapist. How could he make himself better, if not for John? John was his conductor of light. Sherlock had died for him and would live for him. Sherlock had been prepared to go to see a pathetic therapist who did not even have a proper psychology degree if it meant saving his relationship with John. But when Ella had told him they could only make this work if he tried to focus on his own feelings, Sherlock had balked, left the room and did not return. 

Nobody could understand his mind, much less his feelings. He had always been a freak, just like Donavan said. 

Everything hurt. He was aching for some morphine. That was enough to send him to rehab if he went back to Ella.

And his mind was not as reliable as it used to be, since his time away…He had not even seen Mary coming. He had done so much, endured so much for the safety and happiness of the man in front of him. John knew nothing of this and it was better it stayed that way. He’d been hurt, he’d been broken, he’d been tortured. He had killed. He had starved. He had even tortured his own torturers and enjoyed it at the time. 

He remembered their eyes, their hands, the blood seeping out of their neck, their arms, his arms, his neck, his thighs. He remembers the crack of the whip, the clink of glass shards, the hissing cigarette butts…

“Sherlock! Hey…” John was waving a hand in front of Sherlock’s eyes, seemingly having tried to get his attention for a minute or more, “You okay?”

No he was not okay. But it is what it is, his mind supplied.

“You’re seeing that librarian woman.” Sherlock gasped the first deduction he could.

John was as surprised and he was irritated. With his eyes squeezed shut he growled, “What about her?”

“You shaved your genital area for her this morning.” Sherlock replied in a quiet voice.

John rolled his eyes and turned around, his face turning up towards the ceiling, clenching his fists. Took a deep breath. 

“Yes Sherlock, I’m planning on having a real good shag with a pretty woman. Jesus! I’m not married anymore so I can do whatever I please! You should try it sometime.”

Sherlock hummed, “A ridiculous notion if I ever heard one. As I’ve told you before, the Work is what I’m married to! Also, you should really be more careful cleaning out the shower of your pubic hairs.”

John groaned and gritted his teeth. It was a bit-not-good but Sherlock enjoyed sparking reactions out of John: so predictable, yet so satisfying. It was almost as good as impressing him with his deductions. He knew he had to be more careful nowadays of saying the wrong thing though, as he’d found out the hard way. 

Sherlock relented once it was clear John wasn’t going to give a response. The whole purpose of this stupid deduction had been to clear the air from all the repressed tension, as he knew John liked playing that he was mad at Sherlock for blurting out honest observations, but as a result his plans had backfired and the clogged air between them seemed to have gotten worse.

“I’m sorry John…”

“Stop! Just stop right there! Stop bloody apologizing!” John shouted over Sherlock’s soft voice. John ran one hand quickly back through his hair, the other positioned on his waist. 

“John.”

“Christ Sherlock,” John said firmly but more quietly, “please let me speak.”

Sherlock stood still, mute, indicating with a flourish of his hand that John could speak.

“I’m the one who should apologize.” John declared.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally apologizes.

“I’m the one who should apologize.” John declared.

Sherlock suddenly turned to stare at John. Then he seemed to get a grip on himself and nodded. John was unsure what to say next. He just went with the flow of emotions. This was something he had to do. Not just as a favor Mycroft, but a debt to Sherlock.

“These past few years haven’t been easy on me -- but you know that of course. You jumped off the bloody hospital roof first off and left me to grieve for two years. 

And then you told me to go back to Mary, you promised to keep her safe, she bloody died on me – and you took a lot of drugs!” John had to stop to breathe a few times to keep himself from shouting. 

He realized all he had done so far was give a list of grievances rather than actually apologize. Why was this so hard? Sherlock seemed to have put on his carefully neutral mask he wore when he did not want to reveal he had emotions too.

“You did all of this, and that put me on the edge, so to speak. But that did not warrant the -- what I did to you in the morgue. That was cruel. You did nothing wrong. I – I hit you, Sherlock. I beat the living daylights out of you!” 

John’s voice cracked at that last sentence. The tremor in his hand seemed to awaken from these kinds of emotionally fraught conversations. 

“I should not have done that. You are worth more than this shit I gave you. I’m terribly, terribly sorry.” John said this in a subdued voice. 

Sherlock had stepped closer, no doubt to offer John some comfort. Comfort John knew he didn’t deserve. 

He was suddenly reminded of that one time he went to Confession after he came back from the war. It was the same need to confess, to absolve himself from his sins. To submit his soul to a higher power and subjugate his fate entirely to its judgement. 

Culverton Smith, the most abject of criminals, confessed to his victims because he enjoyed the thrilling and liberating power of confessing. Maybe John was as just as low and disgusting as Culverton. Like the final fly Jesus saw as he died on the cross. John shivered at this. Comparing Sherlock to a religious figure he was confessing to felt in no way empowering to John though, so he must have retained some sort of moral spine. After all, Culverton had no remorseful regrets while John had many.  
John knew he had to speak up again to make things right.

“I promise to never hurt you again. Physically or emotionally. If I do so unintentionally, you need to tell me and stop me. I will listen to you, I promise you that.” John vowed.

Sherlock looked at John with shining eyes. John recognized the same expression as in the tube car from the case he’d called The Empty Hearse. John had then confessed that Sherlock had been the best and wisest man he’d ever known. Of course it ended up being a ruse, the bloody bastard. But somehow he knew the teary-eyed expression was genuine. Sherlock – for all his great acting ability and charm – could not fake the look of surprised gratitude that had graced his face then.   
It had taken John’s breath away. He had thought he was going to die so he had not really pondered it, but now that the expression was back on Sherlock’s face, he was hit by its intensity.

However, John knew this could not fix everything. This was unlikely to be the last time he apologized. It was even unlikely to be the last time Sherlock apologized. Sherlock still held many secrets hidden that seemed to give him a lot of pain. He sometimes wore a look on his face that could only be described as haunted, and he had overheard Sherlock at night waking up from a fitful nightmare shouting foreign words. 

They had both been through a lot and the distance between him and Sherlock sometimes felt impossible to cross, but John was proud that he had made a tentative first step in the right direction. He realized they were both staring at each other’s faces, so he coughed to clear his throat and walked toward the kitchen to make tea. Tea was always a good stand-in for normalcy in this flat.

“Thank you, John.”

John could barely hear it, had he misheard? The softness in Sherlock’s voice made John’s heart skip a beat. John spun slowly around to find Sherlock eyes down, standing awkwardly with his hands fidgeting with the right sleeve of his dressing gown. 

How could Sherlock be thanking him of doing what any reasonable human being would have done?   
John felt the self-loathing creep up on him again but then remembered his last therapy session. They’d spoken about his truly lousy childhood and how to deal with the high expectations that he put on himself and others. He had to stop judging Sherlock and himself for being human.

That was when the doorbell buzzed. 

Short, one ring. John and Sherlock exchanged a glance. Client. 

Sherlock bounced out of his trance with an excited the-game-is-on smile. He positively leaped down the steps towards the front door.  
John had to accept that he could both chastise himself for hurting his best friend and accept that Sherlock thanked him for his apology. 

Now back to what they were best at!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I hope you liked this! I'm a bit disappointed I could not get deeper, I kind of triggered myself writing this.   
> The issues John and Sherlock face are far more complex and deeper rooted than I thought. I hope they make it out of this as better men, but I'm just writing as I go.


End file.
